Too many. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. Anna held out her hand, and he paused. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched. As a rule, Courtlaw told her softly, he talked right and left, and to everybody throughout the whole of the meal—tonight he was almost silent, and seemed to devote his whole attention to staring at Anna. That might happen on her birthday—in August. . “Why?” He inquired.
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